29
He was done taking orders from the bigwigs in DC. He’d go alone and nuke Colombia if he had to in order to find her. His mission order was love.
—Tiffanee Thunder, Delta Heat#2: Bogota Fever
Ilan was steaming mad. I didn’t dare meet his eyes as on the tarmac the Caterpillar’s men surrounded us. Meanwhile, that flaming douchesac smiled at me, the usual cigarillo glued between his lips.
“And here I was afraid you’d bail on us, Miss Chaptal.”
I sustained his mocking gaze with a blank expression. “We’re a family; we help each other out. I can identify the men who tried to kidnap me, and I can also help you find Gerone’s sound cannon. I wouldn’t want to sit by and watch.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Ilan’s fists clench.
The Caterpillar smirked and blew a spinning smoke ring in my face—his favorite trick. “Very well. Agent Stiles will take you to the Poseidon Dome along with Delta A1.”
I looked past him at the few men standing several yards behind him near a second Jeep. They reminded me of the guys who had shown up with Alex in Croatia, all wearing unremarkable civilian clothes: jeans, Dockers . . . and even an actual Taco Bell T-shirt. On a two-hundred-pound beefcake who had probably never set foot there. I bit my tongue and wrestled the urge to ask if they were Delta Force for real, whether they’d heard of the Delta Heat series, and if any of them had ever led a secret operation in the Colombian jungle to save the woman he loved.
“I’ll be going with her,” Ilan stated.
I shook my head. “No, you don’t have to take that risk.”
“Then you should have thought about that before you made your decision,” he snapped. “I took responsibility. I’m coming.”
The Caterpillar was bored with us already. He sized up Ilan with a disdainful eye. “Suit yourself. But consider yourself on your own, and if your presence hinders my men in any way, they have my permission to dispose of you, Mr. Menahem.”
It was the first time I’d heard Ilan’s last name, and it served as a reminder that the Caterpillar was anything but a fool. Could he possibly know about the dome too? I knew from past experience that the CIA did not face the Board frontally but rather embraced a comfortable status quo where they tolerated most of its shady activities in exchange for self-regulation efforts and even a little collaboration now and then.
Behind me, Stiles clasped his hands, as if to disperse the explosive mix of contempt and anger hanging in the air between his boss and Ilan. “We’re ready to move.”
He turned his head toward the end of the airstrip, where a blue civilian Chinook was landing with a loud hum. I tugged at Ilan’s flashy shirt with my right hand. “Let’s go.”
On our way to the helicopter, I mumbled. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t stay back.”
I felt a big arm sneak around my shoulder, and a note of humor was back in his gravelly voice as he replied in French, “Franchement, tu serais ma nana, j’t’assommerais et on en parlerait plus. Mais c’est pas moi qui décide pour toi, et le nouveau féminisme, j’y comprends rien.” Frankly, if you were my woman, I’d just knock you out, and that’d be the end of it. But I don’t call the shots for you, and I have no idea how feminism works these days.
“Toi et March, vous êtes bien pareil,” I yelled cheerfully over the droning of the blades as we approached the Chinook. You and March really are the same.
He helped me inside with the hint of a prideful smile, and I watched the sunburned tarmac shrink away as we took off and headed for the ocean. It was my first helicopter ride, and even with a headset that kept slipping because the headband was too loose, it was damn cool. The colors appeared even brighter from above, the palm trees and pristine sand banks merging in a thousand shades of tourmaline, only to be abruptly swallowed by deep blue waters. Once again though, I did feel a little singled out, because while I tried to get used to these new flying sensations and the powerful vibrations of the rotor, everyone had pulled out sunglasses. I was starting to wonder if there was some kind of peer-pressure phenomenon going on regarding those in the espionage and crime sectors at large.
It took less than an hour for the dome’s outline to appear in the horizon. We were flying over an increasing number of yachts and cruise ships, all ferrying lucky vacationers to this modern Elysium. Blood chilled in my veins when I realized the implications of that particular point.
“Ilan, please tell me they’re not taking new guests . . .”
“They are. Apparently the Poseidon will keep operating normally until further notice. The owners and the DGSI don’t want to start a panic. To be honest, they don’t really believe the Americans’ story about that masked guy.” His gaze cut to Stiles. “They think one of your agents went rogue, and you’re only trying to come up with something to cover your mess.”
Stiles’s face fell. “Really? It’s . . . uh . . . outlandish.”
Ilan appraised him with piercing green eyes but didn’t press the issue.
As we approached, the details of the massive lenslike structure emerging from the water became clearer. I pointed at a series of incurved triangular blades overlapping to form a crown at the base of the dome. “It’s the top of the iris. It’s part of the elevating system.”
Stiles squinted at the resort beneath us. “What is it for?”
“I read articles about it; it’s amazing,” I yelled into my microphone. “The whole resort is built on giant hydraulic jacks and can be partially immersed. When they do that, the triangles rotate over each other, like an iris, to form a steel belt that seals all accesses on the first level, like windows, terraces, doors, that kind of stuff. All the sundecks around the dome are retractable—how cool is that?”
Stiles scooted closer to me to look through the window. “But if the dome explodes, the iris won’t resist, right?”
I gazed at the gracious curves sadly. “Even if it does, it would become completely useless.”
The Chinook circled around the dome slowly until it landed on a floating helipad connected to the building by a ramp. Three larger docks served cruise ships and yachts.
After Ilan helped me out of the aircraft, I looked up at the sheer mass of concrete, steel, and glass engulfing my field of vision. So close to the Poseidon Dome, I felt like an ant. Through the windows, I could glimpse the paradise brochures and websites promised: several stories of shops, hotels, swimming pools, palm trees everywhere. This “resort” was really a huge mall built in the middle of the ocean. Like Phyllis had said, profitable, indeed. I personally preferred Rangiroa’s deserted beaches, and some real sand between my toes.
Ilan led us to a white spaceship-like hall where visitors were being “welcomed”—as in searched and requested to provide a credit card imprint. Our little group, however, was escorted by security through a side door.
Once inside, we were swallowed by a wave of humid heat, artificial perfume, and tropical ambient music. Half of the people around us wore bathing suits, and cocktail trays swung past us, carried by nimble waiters. This was clearly the mall area I’d seen from outside: scattered on circular platforms whose balustrades overflowed with plants and flowers, the shops were installed inside fake tiki huts, complete with palm trees. A tangle of escalators and the massive spiral of a staircase linked the stories together.
At the confines of this consumerist heaven, screams and splashing sounds announced the dome’s water park. Dodging a tray of mojitos, I looked up at the giant kakemono hanging from a balcony. Under the hourglass figure of a woman dressed in a black glittery gown, a bold title announced a representation of Mozart’s Magic Flute in the dome’s concert hall.
Ilan placed a hand on my shoulder. “Yeah, I meant to tell you about it. March mentioned your guy was a homicidal maniac who liked Mozart.”
“Yes.”
A smirk revealed Ilan’s incisors. “And if I told you that tonight they’re planning to submerge the dome fully during the show?”
“That sounds like a proper finale for the Crystal Whisperer,” I said, unable to look away from the poster.
Stiles patted my shoulder, “Don’t worry; we have a second team ready in case we need reinforcements.” He checked his phone with a frown. “The French are sending a . . . joint but separate task force.”
“They’re just gonna compete with you guys for who gets Gerone first, right?”
He winced. “Yeah.”
As he said this, the Taco Bell task force that may or may not have been composed of actual Delta Force dudes split from us to spread throughout the resort and start the hunt. After they were gone, Ilan took us away from the tourist crowd, into a quieter area where tall windows opened to a terrace overlooking the Pacific. A few people lounged on deck chairs, but there was definitely more fresh air and privacy. I liked that.
We all sat around at a table under a beach umbrella. Once he’d settled in his chair, Ilan pinned me in place with a hard stare. “So why are we here?”
Stiles too was looking at me with guileless, expectant blue eyes. I fidgeted in my seat. Nice soft cushion by the way. “I wanted to help you guys find Gerone, like I said.”
Ilan’s brow lowered, and his gaze turned dark, drilling holes in my head. “Santa knows when you’re lying.”
Santa was very perceptive, but admitting the truth in front of Stiles was out of the question. What if the CIA didn’t know about the dome being the Board’s property? The Board might later investigate the leak and come to the conclusion that either March or Phyllis was responsible for spilling the beans. What would happen to them then?
I was noticing the ache in my arm again, and the more I tried to think, the more it hurt. I gave up. “I can’t tell you anything.” I breathed through my nose. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Ilan attempted to glower me into submission, while, unexpectedly, Stiles’s gaze softened.
“It’s okay,” he said. “We knew before Mr. November’s assistant told you. Well, I mean, not everyone. But Erwin and I knew. And a third agent, from another directorate too, I think.”
A sudden cold sweat made the light cotton tunic cling to my back. “Um—”
Stiles went on, with a sheepish smile. “It was my car and my laptop, you know. I keep an eye on them.”
Ilan’s gaze flittered between us, waiting for the rest. Stiles dealt the finishing blow while I disintegrated on my chair. “The whole resort belongs to the Board. Once in a while, the Queen and the Towers gather here, to review sectoral performances, mostly.” When he saw us both blinking back at him, he added. “Tower is a code name for some sort of super sector manager. There’s about twenty of them—we don’t know them all.”
Ilan leaned back in his chair and let out a low whistle. “So that Crystal Whisperer guy is”—he cleared his throat, like something was stuck in there that wouldn’t go down—“he’s singlehandedly taking on the entire Board?”
“Well, more like his employer is,” Stiles corrected with a shrug. He paused to look up at the trail left by a little Cessna circling the dome. “Your uncle is a very ambitious man.”
After he placed his hands on his lap as if to signal he was through blowing our minds for now, I sat there, stupidly, staring down at my cast and wondering if Alex and Murrell had ever realized that neither of them was Stiles’s boss.
It was the other way around.